


King of Shadows, King of Shades

by WaywardSpark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22209523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSpark/pseuds/WaywardSpark
Summary: Oh, how ironic. How painfully, hilariously ironic, that the person the fates were drawing Sherlock to, the god of the dead, is the god of spring and rebirth, life itself in palpable form.Hades and Persephone au
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	King of Shadows, King of Shades

In the beginning, the world was split into three: the sky, with its infinite, destructive power; the sea, with its changing tides and moods, as furious and murderous as it is life-giving and plentiful; and the underworld, a dark, empty wasteland, waiting to be filled with the souls of the dead. The world was three, and destined to be ruled by three.

Eurus, the youngest God of the three siblings, thought it best for only one to rule over it alone, so as to avoid arguments and unnecessary debates, and for this to be decided in a fight to the death. (Gods can’t really die, but the loss of their strength and powers for all eternity is as good as.) Sherlock, the middle sibling, wanted a battle of wits, as only the wisest of the gods should have the most power. Mycroft, the eldest and (as he would say) the wisest, however, decided to divide the world into three: the sky, the sea, and the underworld. They would decide through drawing out coloured gems to assign each god their realm, a just and equal verdict. Eurus and Sherlock agreed to this, as neither of them wanted to end up dead, or worse, deemed the stupidest sibling. 

In the drawing match, Mycroft drew out a blue gem, decreeing him god of the sky and king of the gods. Eurus drew out the green gem and was made goddess of the sea, but also decided to take on goddess of earthquakes as a secondary title, so that she could feel a little better about her lot. And finally, Sherlock drew out a red gem, making him the god of death and king of the underworld, where he was to stay for eternity

Over time, the Earth grew and new creatures began to walk the planet, ones created for their intelligence, their empathy, their innovation. New gods appeared too, born from Nature’s power, created to rule over and guide these new creatures. Soon, the universe was swarming with life. It was good. That is, for those able to see it.

“Now here I am,” Sherlock sighs, “Thousands of years later, stuck in the underworld, with no one but the souls of the dead and a three-headed dog for company, really, really, fucking bored.”

The three-headed dog in question, Redbeard, is the audience of this monologue explaining the origins of the universe, and has been a hundred times over in the last couple of thousands of years. As such, he is looking equally bored by this. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Sherlock says, stroking Redbeard’s middle head, “My job can be fascinating. All walks of life come to me eventually, by all means of various gruesome deaths. But then again, a man can only cope with seeing so many plague victims in his eternal lifetime before he starts to find it a little tedious.”

Redbeard whines and places his heads in Sherlock’s lap. 

“Of course, you’re wonderful company, Redbeard. The only person I can talk to around here who isn’t obligated to respect me just because I rule over them. You don’t complain. You don’t cry about your wasted lifetime and your mortal regrets. You don’t beg to be reunited with your long-lost love who isn’t even dead yet. But still, sometimes I wonder…”

“Wonder what, brother mine?”

Sherlock jumps at the sound of Mycroft’s voice, and turns to glare at the god currently standing in front of his throne. “What do you want? You never visit me. I’d assumed your eating habits had left you perpetually stuck in your throne.”

Mycroft gives a forcefully cheerful smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Brotherly concern, that’s all. I was wondering if after six thousand years cabin fever was starting to settle in yet.”

“You’re two thousand years too late. Besides, I’m far too busy for guests. People are dying by the millions, these days. Honestly, is there no one in charge of population control?”

“Not that you would know. I doubt you’ve met a single other fellow deity since you came down here.” Mycroft looked around with a wrinkled nose, sniffing with disgust at the sulphuric smell in the air. “I don’t know how you’ve stood it for this long.”

“I’m kept busy by the work, you know that. And Redbeard here is three times the company any other companion could offer me.” Redbeard barks at the sound of his own name, and wags his tail as Sherlock scratches behind his second right ear. “I’m perfectly sane and happy as things are.”

“That’s not what you were saying earlier. The fact that you were saying anything at all to a _dog_ suggests the exact opposite of sanity and happiness.” Something akin to pity lights up in Mycroft’s eyes. It’s revolting. “I worry, brother dear. You’ve become isolated.”

“I drew the short straw. It’s what I deserve. Besides, I’m surrounded by billions of souls, what’s so isolated about that?”

“Dead, mortal souls. Tell me, Sherlock, do you know who the god of the sun is? The god of the river? The goddess of the hunt?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He can’t even say for sure what the sun is. He’s heard the souls pine for it, for its warmth and brightness and heavenly glow, but even then, it’s impossible to get anything out of them other than vague, melancholy poetry. God, he hates poetry. 

“Your silence speaks multitudes,” Mycroft remarks drily. “Right. That settles it. You are to spend a month on Earth, starting tomorrow.”

“What for?”

“A holiday. Explore the earth, find other gods, escape this miserable hellhole for a while. I will get Anderson to take over in your absence.”

“Anderson?!” Sherlock splutters. “That incompetent fool? He’s a minor deity at best. The place will be in chaos within a day!”

“He’s a god of death, like you. Granted, he’s only been around for one millenium, but I can assure you he’ll be kept under close observation. I can ask Eurus to ease off drowning innocent sailors and toddlers learning to swim, to ease his load, and I will be more... compassionate around irritating mortals.”

“Perfect. No smiting and no drowning. A whole 0.8 percent taken off the long list of the dead,” Sherlock snaps. “All this just to get me to _socialise_.”

“It will be good for you, Sherlock. Pack lightly won’t you? Oh, and as far as I can see, togas haven’t been around for several generations now.” Mycroft glances down critically at Sherlock’s black robes, draping down to his sandled feet. “I’d recommend not drawing unwanted attention to yourself.” And with that, Mycroft vanished, undoubtedly to feast on some leftovers from old sacrifices. 

“Meet new people, but don’t draw attention to yourself,” Sherlock mutters. “Wonderful. Capital advice.”

~

Looking through the recent list of the dead and their pictures in their files, Sherlock fails to find anything appealing about the modern style. All plain and repetitive and mass produced, with ugly logos stuck to the corner of every shirt. The business men in their suits, though polar opposite to this style, remind him of Mycroft too much to want to mimic. However, after a couple of hours of rummaging through files, he finds a male model, 32, dead by drug abuse, in a fetching purple shirt and trousers that aren’t completely hideous. His robes immediately transform at will, and suddenly there was no logical barrier keeping him from taking the holiday Mycroft had ordered. 

Redbeard whines, nudges his right head into Sherlock’s hand. He strokes it fondly. “Come on. Keep me company while I’m up there, eh?”

Suddenly remembering that most humans don’t see three-headed dogs in their lifetime, he covers two of the heads in a mist no mortal can see through, leaving him looking tragically normal. 

“Right,” Sherlock says decidedly, clearing his throat nervously. “Into battle.”

~

Earth is… chaotic.

It is anger, constant yelling from the humans and their machines alike, horns blaring from cars and trains screaming as they rattle past. It is happiness and energy, as children run through parks, lovers meet on benches, families explore unknown parts of the city with excitement. There is loneliness and isolation, where men sit in street corners starving, and no one looks them in the eye. No one looks anyone in the eye anymore - did they ever? 

In short, Sherlock rather enjoys Earth.

He can look at every single person and see the time they have left like a clock ticking down their finite lives to completion, unbeknownst to them. He recognises symptoms of ailments and diseases that have brought many souls down to him in the past, he sees bruises and cuts shared by other victims, whose spouses went a little too far and sent them to the Underworld, whether that was their intention or not. He sees traces of the ghosts of the past, an ancestor’s nose or bright green eyes or curly dark hair in their descendent. It’s all remarkably fascinating.

Redbeard is having the time of his life. He barks excitedly at passing cars, at wandering pigeons, at fellow canines who sniff at him out of curiosity, then detect something other-worldly about his presence and immediately scarper away, back to their owners. Redbeard, ever loyal never once leaves Sherlock’s side. 

“Right. Where first, Redbeard?” 

He sees a sign for St Bartholemew’s Hospital and Mortuary and thinks, ah. Perfect.

The sky thunders disapprovingly. “I know, I know,” Sherlock mutters, looking up at it. “The point was to escape being surrounded by dead people, I’m not taking this holiday seriously, have you any idea how much admin is involved in giving a god a holiday, blah blah blah. But consider this, Mycroft: it’s not actually your business what I do with my free time.” The sky cracks with lightning, a reminder of Mycroft’s power and his 

He’s drawn to the hospital in a way he can’t explain, something tugging at his chest like a string wrapped around it leading him there. Fate, maybe. Perhaps he was meant to draw that red gem all those millennia ago, destined to be surrounded by death. Besides, learning a little more about the diseases that are killing people off these days and how to identify it will make paperwork so much quicker.

He slips through the crowds of people unseen, into the large building - truly remarkable, the feats of architecture humans are now capable of - and makes his way through the building without an aim or plan. No one stops him, or questions why he’s there or why he has Redbeard with him: one of the many benefits of having the powers of the king of the underworld and the ability to repel mortals.

The string of pulls him further and further into the hospital, down corridors until he comes across an emergency surgery room. Perfect. A bit of entertainment, whether the mortal lives or dies. Perhaps he’ll go to dinner once the show is finished.

When he goes inside the room and stands unobtrusively in the corner, he finds that there’s already someone on the table, unconscious wires and tubes poking out of his arms and mouth, the machine next to him beating a steady, frantic tempo. There’s a wound at his side, bright red leaking through the white bandages. A gunshot, perhaps. Sherlock’s seen enough of them come his way to know it by sight. An accident, though, almost certainly; no one would shoot to kill by aiming there.

“How’s he doing?” One of the doctors ask, a man with dark bags under his eyes. They all do. It seems to be as integrated into their uniform as the gloves and hat and blue tunic. The fact that he’s a father of two young toddlers doesn’t help, Sherlock observes.

“Not good,” the other surgeon responds, a young woman soon to be engaged, if the nails are anything to go by. “Bullet’s wedged right in there. I think we should get -”

“No.”

“But -”

“I don’t trust him, Lydia. He - oh, I don’t know, gives off this vibe. And his techniques are so unorthodox. Nothing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been doing this job for nearly a decade now.”

“Unorthodox or not, if we want this poor sod to live he’s our best bet. And the longer we stand here arguing about it, the less likely he is to live.”

The other doctor rolls his eyes, but rushes out of the room. Sherlock’s curiosity is piqued now; what petty nonsense could these mortals be talking about? 

“ - and I know you were just on your lunch break, but -”

“Honestly, don’t worry about it,” a man’s voice says, breathless with urgency but still calm. The door swings open and Lydia and a man steps through - likely this mysterious unorthodox doctor they were talking about. He gives Lydia a reassuring smile underneath his surgery mask that makes his eyes crinkle. Usually, this would be downright inappropriate, given that there’s a dying man in the room, but in this case it seems reassuring, professional. “Right. Hand me the equipment there.”

Sherlock had come here to watch death, to witness mortality in action and satisfy his curiosity. Instead, he finds his gaze drawn to the mysterious doctor. That same force - _Fate_ , with a capital F - that was pulling him into this room clearly lies in this man. Why? He’s nothing more than a doctor, albeit an impressive one. He watches as he cuts and prods and pokes the injured man with various instruments, not once breaking into a sweat or shaking. Instead, he has an intense, dark stare that goes unbroken for the duration of the entire surgery. How long has it been now? An hour? Two?

Then something catches Sherlock’s eye. It’s subtle, very subtle, obviously hidden by years of practice, but just as the doctor digs out the bullet, he waves his hand across the wound, and the room is suddenly filled with - not magic, that inane, puerile word more suited to card tricks of mortals. It’s _power._ The kind that can only come from other gods, as familiar as Sherlock’s own, recognisable by its static tingle in the air, and yet warmer, like sunlight, and slightly fragrant like the flowers outside the shops on the street. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat, choking him.

 _He’s like me._

“Right. That should be good.”

“He - he’s stopped bleeding,” one of the other doctors observe with awe. 

“Really? Oh, so he has. Didn’t realise.” Liar, Sherlock thinks with amusement. “Best stitch him up just in case.” And just to confirm Sherlock’s suspicions, the doctor looks up with dark blue eyes that widen in recognition as they look straight. At. Sherlock.

_Oh no._

“Excuse me. I’ll be going back to my lunch now.” The doctor strides out of the room before anyone can protest, and gives Sherlock a meaningful stare as he passes that tells him to follow him. The king of the underworld obeys.

Once out of the room, the doctor pulls off his mask and hat, revealing a worn yet somehow youthful face that defies age or time. His hair is sandy, almost grey, and his eyes are the most exquisite colour Sherlock has seen in over a millenia. The underworld is grey and dark and damp. This doctor - this _god_ \- is light and radiant, made from the oceans and beaches and all the beautiful things Sherlock has gone without for so long. 

“So.”

“So.”

“You’re a -“

“Yes.”

“And you know I’m- “

“Obviously.”

The other god huffs out an incredulous laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Wow. Been a while since I’ve seen another one like me. I’m John.” He takes a glove off of his hand and puts it out front of him. Sherlock frowns. What the hell is he supposed to do with this? John smiles patiently. “Shake it. It’s a human custom when you meet a new person. I’ve sort of grown used to it now”

“Why? Aren’t there enough diseases going around without strangers willingly touching hands with each other?”

“I think we’re alright on the diseases front, you and I. The idea is that it shows you’re not carrying a knife in your hand. So I know I can trust you.”

“So? I wouldn’t need a knife to harm you if I so wished.”

John scoffs. “Bloody hell, you’re impossible. Here -“ He reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand in his with a firm, warm grip that sends sparks straight up Sherlock’s arm. He shakes the joint hands up and down once, then twice, then releases, leaving Sherlock’s palm tingling and embarrassingly sweaty. He didn’t even know gods were able to sweat. Then again, he didn’t even know a simple touch could leave him so flustered. It has been a while, after all, since he’s had any kind of contact with anything living other than his dog.

“I see. I suppose I can understand the appeal of the custom,” Sherlock says carefully. “I’m Sherlock. And this is Redbeard.” He gestures down beside him, where John’s eyes fall and widen in surprise.

“Three heads.”

“Oh good, you can count.”

“Don’t get many three headed dogs around here.”

“Luckily the mortals can only see one.”

John seems vaguely impressed by even this simple bit of deception. Then again, being surrounded by incompetent humans for millenia, who think it’s a talent to rub their stomachs and pat their heads simultaneously, must put these things into perspective. “God of the underworld, right?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Not sure. The room was just… colder when I came in. Smelled of death a little, even though the patient was still alive.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s fingers twitch, clench into a fist by his side, suddenly self-conscious. “And it’s… not a pleasant smell?”

John hums, stays silent for a moment, before finally deciding, “it’s melancholy, I’d say. Dull and drains your energy, a little. But certainly something I’m used to at this point.” John gives a rueful smile. “Thousands of years in thousands of hospitals and thousands of wars. I’m no stranger to death.”

John’s eyes appear to grow dim as he talks, grieving and full of regret. Sherlock would give anything to see the things John has seen, all that violence in action, the metamorphosis from life to death, and yet John seems to be less enthusiastic about the whole ordeal. Sherlock changes the subject. “So what are you the god of? Medicine?”

“In part. Technically I’m the god of spring. Rebirth and healing comes as part of the package deal, I suppose.”

Oh, how ironic. How painfully, hilariously ironic, that the person the fates were drawing Sherlock to, the god of the dead, is the god of spring and rebirth, life itself in palpable form. Sherlock can’t help but chuckle.

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

John smiles, then catches himself and clears his throat. “Well, I suppose you have things to do. People to kill. Scythes to swing.”

“Not my job actually. In fact, I’m on holiday right now.”

“Holiday?” John says incredulously. “Gods can do that?”

“Yes. Cabin fever was starting to settle in after several thousand years in the underworld. So I’m just taking a look around Earth for the next month or so, at my brother’s insistence that I socialise with people other than the dead.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock can see the way John is twitching with excitement, the hopeful glitter of his eyes, the high pitch with which he spoke, underneath a facade of mild interest. Sherlock smiles, and adds, “I could use a guide, you know.”

John grins. “You’ve come to the right man.”


End file.
